


Find Shelter Under Me

by Cannebady



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Oral Sex, Requited Love, Smut, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannebady/pseuds/Cannebady
Summary: Apocalypse averted, Aziraphale and Crowley find some down time in their new lives. Taking Aziraphale up on his offer of a picnic in 1967, they go to St. James Park for some relaxation. A switch up in attire and newly bared skin is the catalyst to a change neither expected, but both wanted so, so badly.





	Find Shelter Under Me

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! As usual, I own nothing: not these characters, or my mind, or my sanity.
> 
> I wish I could say that I learned to edit or reread my work but alas, here we are again. 
> 
> Author apologizes sincerely for all misspellings or tense issues and promises to try harder next time.

It’s a beautiful fucking day. The kind where the air smells clean and sweet and where the breeze offsets the heat from the Sun making it a travesty to stay inside. Crowley is laying on his stomach, basking really, and letting the warm rays unknot his muscles and dull his thoughts. He supposes that old habits really do die hard. The copious amount of Chateau Cheval Blanc he’s consumed doesn’t hurt either. It’s all culminated in to a rather hazy, slow afternoon that feels like a decadence. 

Aziraphale, for his part, is sitting and reading an old copy of The Divine Comedy, well-worn and well-preserved, and allowing the blades of grass to tickle at his feet where the hang over the edge of their blanket. They’re both uncharacteristically casually dressed. Something about the day, about the new world really, made something release inside Crowley that he hadn’t known was coiled. It seemed that Aziraphale was feeling similarly. It just didn’t seem as necessary to play a part anymore. After all, who was watching? They’d successfully averted the Apocalypse; watched an 11-year-old boy stand down Satan himself, and proceeded to give a thorough two-finger salute to both Heaven and Hell all in the span of a few days. From Crowley’s perspective, they’d damn well earned a break. That’s why they’re here. After 11 years of looking over their shoulders, calculating every move, and living with a rampant undercurrent of anxiety, he can finally make good on a suggestion Aziraphale made in 1967. So here they are, having a picnic just to enjoy the world they saved and each other’s company, Arrangement-be-damned.

Crowley’s traded his tight leather pants for a pair of soft black skinny jeans and he’s without his ever-present blazer, allowing the warmth to touch the skin of his arms. He’s also sans shoes for the moment and is enjoying the feel of the Earth under his feet. It brings him back to the early days before those encumbered with corporeal forms had to be so focused on trousers and socks and shoes and clothing in general. He’s comfortable. Dare he say, content. He may not have everything he wants (he’s not even going to go there, okay? Not today) but beggar Demons can’t be choosers. Anyway, a life where he gets to sit here in companionable silence with Aziraphale? Well, he wouldn’t do anything at all to risk it. Crowley feels pretty damned lucky for what he already has thank you very much. He turns his head to the side to take in the, frankly lovely, sight of his friend.

Still preferring a lighter palette than Crowley’s customary black and grey, he’s in a loose pair of khakis and a white button-up shirt. Gone are the bowtie, waistcoat, and jacket that typically adorn his upper half. Instead, his shirt is carelessly untucked, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows haphazardly showing surprisingly strong forearms and a smattering of ice-blonde hair. In short, it’s an excellent look. Aziraphale looks soft, handsome, and incandescent. Crowley is, not for the first time (not by far), entranced. He watches Aziraphale reach for one of the dates on their picnic plate. He dips the fruit in golden honey and brings it to his mouth, lightly licking at the honey first before popping it in his mouth. Crowley’s throat goes desert dry and he’s eternally grateful that he’s laying on his stomach so that his body’s reaction to Aziraphale’s indulgence isn’t noticeable. He’ll deal with the physical discomfort before having to deal with the very real emotional discomfort of rejection. Pushing down the impulse to reach out and touch is as easy as breathing at this point.

Here’s the thing. Crowley’s smart. Maybe not in the well-read, scholarly way Aziraphale is, but Crowley knows people and he knows angels and he knows demons; he is the later, was the former, and has spent the last several millennia studying people. He knows what they want, what they like, what makes them tick, and what makes them stray from the path of righteousness (as it turns out, it doesn’t take much). He knows that, as Beezlebub had indicated, he and Aziraphale have gone rather native after 6,000 some years on Earth. What all that boils down to is, if Aziraphale had some reciprocal interest in exploring the more biblical forms of intimacy with a red-headed Demon, Crowley would know. He knows desire. Hell, he made a fairly decent career out of it in his hay day and he’s been searching for a flicker or a taste of desire coming off of the Angel for damn near 5,000 years at this point without finding anything. And it’s fine. Really, it is. He and Aziraphale are of the same original stock, so he knows that those desires aren’t innate. Considering Aziraphale’s propensity for enjoying other pleasures, like food, wine, other drinks, Crowley thought that maybe, just maybe, that’d extend to other more carnal pleasures but, no dice as it were. Even so, he’s happier than he ever figured a Fallen Angel could be, so he doesn’t dwell on what he doesn’t have so much. He learned first hand what it’d feel like to be without the Angel, cringing at the sense memory of fire and burning pages, and it’s not something he ever wants to repeat. If keeping his dumb mouth shut and his forked tongue contained is all it takes to maintain a frightfully pleasant status quo, Crowley will do it with aplomb.

Feeling the sharp edge of sudden arousal receding into something more like a simmer, Crowley rolls over and gives a long, languid stretch. He reaches his long arms above his head and gives himself leverage to arch his back and settle into a new position. The movement catches Aziraphale’s attention and he turns to look at Crowley. His head is thrown back with a small smile gracing his angular features. His hair is a riot of red strands, mussed from the breeze and from his own hands running through them, and there’s a lovely flush on his cheeks from the wine that travels down the graceful column of his throat to his chest. The deep V of his dark grey t-shirt leaves a little less to the imagination than normal and Aziraphale can see the blush creep under the neckline of the shirt. He has to reel in a blinding urge to see if the skin tastes as warm and inviting as it looks. The stretch has also caused Crowley’s shirt to ride up just a touch, revealing a tantalizing strip of flesh right above the waistline of his (sinfully tight, always so, so tight) jeans. Aziraphale is an Angel, a Principality, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, and a whole lot tougher than he looks, okay? He uses every single atom of his ethereal power not to throw himself on top of his friend and beg him for permission to touch and taste. Aziraphale isn’t great at denying himself things, so he internally pats himself on the back for possessing such restraint. Considering the looks that Crowley is getting from passersby, he’s not alone in his struggle.

Crowley’s position does look enviably comfortable, so Aziraphale uses a minor miracle to pack their picnic spread back into the designated basket and lays down next to his friend. His left arm and Crowley’s right are touching from shoulder to wrist. He had intended to pick his book back up and continue reading, but it’d be an exercise in futility considering that he cannot concentrate on anything that isn’t the points of contact in their arms. He realizes that both he and Crowley were typically very covered. Despite Crowley’s alluring style, he always remained well-covered and Aziraphale himself always preferred layers. Now, it’s just skin to skin and his mind is melting. The heat from Crowley’s body is intoxicating. He’s close enough that he can smell Crowley’s cologne, something smoky, deep, and Earthy and he thinks that maybe that’s just how Crowley smells. It suits him. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s twitched his pinky finger towards Crowley’s hand; it brushes along the outside of Crowley’s palm. Anxiety rises, and his breathing picks up. He feels like there are sparks sizzling on his hand where they’d touched. Crowley turns his head sharply towards Aziraphale. Their eyes lock, blue meeting sunglass-cased gold. Crowley’s mouth drops open and he sucks in air like a drowning man.

Crowley is many things, but a coward is not one of them, so he makes the next move and tangles his fingers with Aziraphale’s while maintaining eye contact. Aziraphale immediately grabs his hand and runs his thumb over Crowley’s. Simultaneously, they both break out into stunned smiles at the joint contact. Aziraphale’s face is so bright that Crowley is sure it could replace the Sun as a light source. Crowley’s smile is so soft, so tentative, and so heart-stoppingly sincere that Aziraphale has to gain composure before he does something ridiculous like start crying, or kissing him, or confessing centuries worth of longing.

What does happen is this: Aziraphale pulls Crowley to him and they arrange themselves on the blanket in an all-out cuddle. One of Aziraphale’s arms is under Crowley’s neck, supporting it, while the other runs itself through the riot of red hair. Crowley has one hand twisted into the side of Aziraphale’s shirt and the other lovingly placed on his chest while his pillows itself between Aziraphale’s chest and shoulder, allowing him to breath in the Angel’s scent. Although their hearts are mostly for show, the reassuring beat in Aziraphale’s chest is enough to allow Crowley to drift in to a twilight sleep. They stay there for hours or eternities, it’s hard to tell, but when the Sun finally makes it’s exit Crowley shifts as if to sit up. Aziraphale untangles his hand from Crowley’s hair, Crowley doing the same to Aziraphale’s shirt, and they both make fleeting eye contact while blushing like middle-schoolers.

“Shall we go back to mine?” Crowley finally says. “I think I still have some Chateau Cheval that we can break open.” He’s taken his glasses off and he knows that his eyes are pleading with Aziraphale to accept. To not let this day end. To not let their comfortable intimacy end.

“My dear, you don’t need to tempt me with wine. The pleasure of your company is temptation enough.” Aziraphale responds. There’s a heat in his eyes Crowley has never seen before. Well, that’s no strictly true. He’s seen it many times, just not in Aziraphale’s eyes. 

He means to say, “Yes, Angel? Can I tempt you into something more?”, he means to say, “Never leave me. Live everyday with me just like this one.”, he means to say, “I love you, I love you, I love you, I think I’ve always loved you.”

What he says is, “Hng.” Well done, smooth-talking Serpent of Eden, Crowley thinks to himself.

Aziraphale smiles warmly and chuckles. “I feel rather the same, my dear. Shall we?” He stands extending his hand to Crowley. He takes it and doesn’t let go for the whole walk to Mayfair, blanket and basket miracled elsewhere.

When they arrive at Crowley’s flat he’s impressed to say that he waits for a whole 35 seconds, making an aborted sweeping hand gesture meant to convey “welcome”, before he backs Aziraphale up against his front door. They’re pressed together, chest to groin, now and Crowley inserts one of his legs between Aziraphale’s. He isn’t looking at Aziraphale’s face yet. He can’t. If he’s reading this wrong or if Aziraphale changes his mind or smartens up before hitching his chariot to a literal Demon, he may just crumble. Instead he stares resolutely at where their bodies are touching. Looks at the way the dark grey of his shirt contrasts the bright white of Aziraphale’s. That, it turns out, is also a mistake because he immediately thinks about how much better it’d be without the fabric between them and he’s sure that Aziraphale can feel his body react to the thought. Unfortunately, there’s no way to easily extricate himself from this position so he takes a bracing breath and drags his eyes up his friend’s torso to meet his eyes. What he sees reflected flattens him. 

It’s heat, so much heat. Aziraphale looks like he wants to either pass out or eat Crowley alive. Crowley much prefers the latter. He raises his hands to Aziraphale's face and slowly traces his brow line, his cheeks, and lips before resting one hand on the door next to his head and the other on his neck, allowing his thumb to continue stroking his cheekbone. After a few moments of soaking in his Angel's gorgeous features, he rests his forehead against Aziraphale's.

"Tell me to stop." he breathes out. He wants this so badly and he knows that once he starts it'll take a herculean effort to stop. But he only wants this if Aziraphale does. This isn't a temptation and he'll be damned if he treats his friend with anything other than the utmost respect. "Please tell me to stop if you don't want this." His heart is beating so loudly he wouldn't be shocked if Aziraphale could hear it loud and clear.

Aziraphale looks at him like he's speaking another language. Crowley takes a quick mental inventory to see if he accidentally spoke that in French. Before he's done, he feels a hand in his hair. The hand tugs, and fuck yes please tug fucking harder, and levels his face with Aziraphale's. 

"My dear, look at me please." Aziraphale says. He reaches up with his other hand and lays it on Crowley's chest, right over his damned heart. "I've wanted you since Eden, I think. I've known I loved you since you made 'Hamlet' a success and likely loved you long, long before that. I've known I was in love with you since you walked cock sure into a church of all things and saved me and my books. You looked so handsome, Crowley. That suit and your hat. And then you were saving me." Aziraphale trails off and smiles to himself for a moment.

"You called it a demonic miracle that night. All I saw was an avenging Angel. My own avenging Angel." he sighs and fixes Crowley with an imploring stare. "I'm so sorry it took me so long to catch up, but I could no better push you away than I could cut off my own wings. You're part of me, Crowley. I'm desperate for you. Please, please touch me. Please let me show you how good you are."

Crowley's self-restraint, never an abundant resource, snaps. He let's out a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper and slots his lips against Aziraphale's. They don't so much crash together as they try to melt into the same space. Aziraphale has a hand in his hair and one on his lower back and is pulling him in so tight its driving him mad.

Crowley's dabbled in sex. You don't spend millennia as a professional tempter without sampling some of the goods. And while he left many of those encounters sated, only a couple stood out. Overall, it didn't seem worth the effort (although personally damning the soul of Sir Arthur Conan Dolye with his cock is a point of pride) so eventually he just kind of stopped, rerouting his demonic energy into other projects like the M25, selfies, and those plastic pieces on disposable water bottles that never come off entirely. He's never asked (due to self-preservation) if Aziraphale dabbled in that particular human activity. He doesn't think so, but he's often wrong. 

This is nothing like he's ever felt before. He's rolling his body (thank you serpent spine) into Aziraphale's, rubbing himself shamelessly against the Angel's form when he feels it. Evidently Aziraphale is Making an Effort. That thought alone washes him in liquid fire and forces a low groan out of his chest. He grabs Aziraphale's wandering hands and pins them to the door.

"Do you-, fuck, 'Zira. Do you know what we're doing? Do you know what you want?" he pants out. He needs to cool down for a second so that he can take this slow for Aziraphale. He can do slow. He's a bloody expert at slow. 

In a surprising show of both strength and dominance, Aziraphale breaks Crowley's hold and swaps their positions. He's got Crowley pinned to the door by his hips and is snaking a hand underneath Crowley's shirt to play at a perked nipple. Once Crowley reorient he's desperate.

"Angel, fuck that's hot. You've done this before?" he grits out. He needs to breathe. If he isn't careful, he's going to come in his pants like a human teenager.

Aziraphale looks down, almost sheepish, and mutters, "Oscar Wilde was a fabulous lover. I learned quite a bit." He then fixes Crowley with a salacious smirk and Crowley is completely thrown. First of all, he knew Aziraphale's fondness for those first editions was about more than their content. Second, he's horribly, gnawingly jealous that someone else has seen Aziraphale the way he is right now. Third, he's so hard that he's pretty sure his cock could cut glass. He couldn't get any harder, he thinks, until Aziraphale says,

"Would you like a demonstration?" and sinks to his knees. He lifts Crowley's shirt slightly and presses a series of biting kisses along his waistline. When Aziraphale looks up at him, flushed and happy, he returns a dopey smile and nods in permission. That's all Aziraphale needs to devest Crowley of his belt (Aziraphale rolls his eyes at the snake head buckle), his trousers, and his pants. A frivolous use for a miracle, but this is the same Angel who walked into Hell in a Demon's body and asked the archangel Michael for a rubber duck and a towel. Perhaps he hadn't been giving Aziraphale enough credit.

He reminds himself of that thought again before he loses all ability to think at all because Aziraphale presses his face into the junction of thigh and groin, takes a deep breath in, and groans. He meets Crowley's eyes and, holding eye contact, licks him root to tip. He let's out a very embarrassing sound and his hands fly into Aziraphale's gorgeous, soft, mess of curls. Not moving him, just holding on for dear life. He can withstand hellfire but he's not sure he'll live through this. 

Aziraphale wraps his lips around the tip of Crowley's cock and sucks, giving the sensitive underside attention with the tip of his tongue. Crowley's head thunks back against the door and he moans loud and long as Aziraphale sucks him down to the root. At one point, in the history of time, Crowley had been widely revered for this particular talent. His not-so-human tongue helped. He feels that if the people who he'd sucked off had also been sucked off by Aziraphale, he wouldn't have even made a footnote. Aziraphale is lost to it. He's devouring Crowley like he does a particularly nice pastry and Crowley is fighting not to come immediately.

Finding his voice is difficult but he manages, "Ah-, shit, Zira, m'gonna" and a tug on the Angel's hair. Aziraphale pulls off with a pop and licks his lips indulgently. Bastard. Angel. Love of his fucking damned life.

He's watching Aziraphale try to find words when he sees him reach down and squeeze his own cock. The fact that Aziraphale is trying to stop himself from coming too soon just from sucking Crowley off makes his feral.

He pulls Aziraphale up and backs him roughly though his flat until they get to his bedroom. He's still wearing his shirt and sunglasses and nothing else. Aziraphale is fully clothed and it is unacceptable. He tears his shirt off and throws it somewhere and places his glasses on the nightstand. He then turns to Aziraphale completely vulnerable and advances on him until his knees are right up against Crowley's mattress. He slowly run his hands up the Angel's sides and he feels Aziraphale shiver. He starts undoing the buttons and calls a quick, unheard 'Thanks' to the Almighty Herself for Aziraphale foregoing his usual 86,347 layers. When he gets to the fourth button Aziraphale's hands come up to halt his progress. He let's out a whimper but stops and meets Aziraphale's eyes. There's something else there now. Not quite fear, but nervousness maybe? Apprehension? He's not sure what he could be apprehensive about considering he'd just taken Crowley balls deep in his throat but that's neither here nor there.

"I-", the Angel starts. "I'm sure it's obvious, regrettably, but I wanted to make you aware that I don't look-. You're so. I mean look at you. You're perfection incarnate. I'm not that, really." he finishes lamely. He looks at the ground and the flush around his cheeks has taken on less of a honey flush and more of a ruddy pallor. 

Crowley is unforgivably slow on the uptake. It's just that he's always known Aziraphale was gorgeous. Those eyes, his hair, his blasted, distracting, delicious looking thighs, that arse. When they'd swapped bodies he'd had to fastidiously not look. He'd wanted to look. He wanted to do quite a bit more than look. But Crowley's tragic at being a Demon and maintained his best friend's privacy (at quite a toll to himself, he thinks). But now that he can touch, has permission to touch and suck and lick, he's eager. He just didn't think Aziraphale would see himself so differently. 

Crowley summons every aspect of charm he's amassed over six millennia and turns up the charm. He's good at this. Or was. It seems like his playbook is generally out the window where the Angel is concerned. He uses his God-given (and laughs as the term in his head) talent to sidle up to Aziraphale, pressing his (very naked, very sensitive) body up against his. 

"Do you even know what you do to me?" he purrs right into his Angel's ear. He grabs one of Aziraphale's hands and brings it down between his legs. "Feel it. I've never been this hard in my life and you're not even naked yet. Suffice it to say that you 'do it for me' Angel. Just as you are. Don't change a thing."

Aziraphale doesn't look like he believes him and Crowley makes a mental note to spend the rest of eternity (should he be so lucky) showering Aziraphale with praise. 

Luckily, the Angel's concerns must mostly abate as his rids himself of his clothing with a snap. 

"Like a bandaid, as they say." he quips but Crowley can hear the tremor of self-consciousness in his voice. Can feel the way Aziraphale's arms come around his middle to hide himself. 

He takes both hands and slowly lowers Aziraphale to the bed, pinning his hands." I want to see you, Angel. All of you." he growls, allowing his eyes to look a bit more feral and for his teeth to look a little less human. It works (Crowley preens).

He kisses down Aziraphale's chest sucking at his nipples, biting and then soothing. Aziraphale is making constant choked off moans and whimpers and it's driving Crowley's sanity from his mind. He gets to the Angel's belly and feels him tense. Ah, he thinks. This must be the source of his insecurities. He can't understand it. He's always found Aziraphale's softer build more pleasant than his own angles and points. Either way, he gives himself over to showering that soft, pale flesh with kisses. Making sure to vocalize his pleasure, he can feel the Angel relaxing and even enjoying the intimacy. He's going to, literally, suck Aziraphale's mind out through his cock. 

Crowley's trying to decide how he wants to do this. He could go slow and sensual. He could swallow him to the root and show him why so many humans damned their souls for a roll in the hay. It doesn't actually matter because Aziraphale is talking. 

"Crowley, my dear, please. I want you in me. Please, I need you." he rambles. He's begging for Crowley's cock. He's going to die tonight he knows it. But what a way to go. 

He decides he can have the best of both worlds. He spares a miracle to produce a bottle of lube and a condom. Seeing the items, Aziraphale fixes him with a look. The grabs the condom packet and throws it somewhere. 

"We're immortal, celestial beings Crowley. I want to feel your skin." he says in the most wanton voice Crowley's ever heard. 

His brain short-circuits and he let's out a pathetic noise of his own, feeling his eyes dialate, and tears the cap off of the lube drenching his hand in his haste. He doesn't care. Couldn't fucking care if he tried. He throws himself down between Aziraphale's spread thighs (just as delectable as he always thought), and sucks his cock down to the base in one go. He doesn't have patience for slow but he can't rush the next part. 

A slick finger starts to trace the outline of Aziraphale's entrance before pushing in. He's velvet soft and hot as Hell (Crowley would know) and the thought that he'll be in that heat without a barrier in short turn forces a desperate hum out of him around Aziraphale's cock. He enters a second finger with the first and starts to scissor them, opening Aziraphale up in earnest. He knows that he could spare another frivolous miracle to move things along but he rather likes this part. Aziraphale is moaning loud and full bodied now. His head and thrashing back and forth on the bed and the hand that isn't reverently petting Crowley's hair is grappling with his black silk sheets. He looks debauched. He looks fucking beautiful. Crowley is the luckiest son of a bitch in the 9 circles of Hell and you can't tell him otherwise. He adds a third finger, pushes them all the way in and crooks them just right. Aziraphale nearly screams and his back archs off the bed so suddenly that Crowley almost jumps. Aziraphale is so responsive and sensitive. It's driving him 'round the bend. 

"I'm ready, Crowley for Hell's I won't shatter now get in me." Aziraphale pants. 

He's never denied Aziraphale anything in the past so why start now. He uses the rest of the ridiculous amount of lube he squeezed out to give himself a few perfunctory strokes (still hard as iron, as it turns out) and slowly eases his way in. 

"You don't have to slow down on my account, my dear." Aziraphale says, laying his hand on Crowley's bicep. 

"S'not for you Angel." Crowley groans. "If I move any faster we won't have long enough to get anywhere. I'm on a razors edge as we speak." the words feel like they were pulled from his chest. The rest of his consciousness is devoted to not coming immediately before he gets a chance to see Aziraphale shake to pieces around him. 

Aziraphale's eyes widen fractionally and the he smirks before he gives a dirty grind with his hips that has Crowley all but yelping. 

Taking the hint, Crowley grabs Aziraphale's hips (more to prevent a repeat of the last moment so this isn't over in three bloody seconds) and starts to rock into him slowly. He knows he isn't going to last so he uses all of his best tricks. He makes sure to hitch his hips up at the end of every thrust so that he's grazing Aziraphale's prostate constantly, he's whispering flith and complete nonsense into his ear, he winds both arms underneath Aziraphale's shoulders and his hands up into his hair so that their bodies are pressed tightly together. There's friction on Aziraphale's cock with every thrust and he can tell that the Angel is also hurtling towards his end rather quickly. Crowley is overwhelmed when Aziraphale brings his legs up to wrap around Crowley's waist. There's no space between them but he still wants more. He wants to bury himself inside of Aziraphale and soak up his warmth and his goodness and take in the smell of flowers and vanilla and stardust. 

Aziraphale rakes his nails down Crowley's back and makes a helpless noise. 

"Can you come like this Angel? Just from my cock?" he growls low and predatory. It had the desired effect. 

"Yes, fuck, I'm going to come. Please, harder!" the Angel moans. The curse ratchets things up for Crowley again. Hearing the word in his clipped, proper tone makes him lose his last shred of control. 

He rears back and bends one of Aziraphale's legs over his shoulder so he can pound into him even deeper. After a handful of thrusts Aziraphale grabs Crowley's hand and squeezes it so tightly as he comes, untouched, between them. He clenched hard around Crowley's cock and a shift in the air brings the Demon's attention to the gorgeous, huge, pearlescent wings that have manifested on this plane. They look amazing, breathtaking against his inky black sheets and he groans aloud releasing his wings as well to wrap about he and Aziraphale and he thrusts once more, to the hilt, before spilling himself deep inside the Angel with a bitten off cry. 

He comes to a few moments later. His face is buried in the side Of Aziraphale's neck and he finds his eyes suspiciously wet. Aziraphale is carding his fingers through red hair and smiling indulgently at the Demon in his arms. 

"Well fuck me," Crowley says. "Let's never stop doing that. Shit. Let's just stay here and fuck until the next Apocalypse." 

"You'll hear no complaint from me. And I'd be happy to try it. The, well, you the fu-. The other way around." Aziraphale mumbles. 

He looks quizzically at Crowley for a moment. "Did you mean it? What you said when we were. Entangled?" 

Crowley is trying to recall any of the bullshit that left his mouth in flagrante and recalls, just a few moments earlier, a very important something he left slip. 

While his face was buried in the Angel's neck he can feel the words he mouthed." I love you Angel. I'll always love you. Anything you want you'll have. I'll hang the stars again for you." He's thought it so many times and it made itself known while he was knitting himself back together after the fact. He sits bolt upright and looks Aziraphale in the eyes. He's terrified but he's going to do this. 

He takes Aziraphale's hand, "Every word, love. I meant every word. And I will, if you'll have me." 

Aziraphale's eyes are brimming with unshed tears when he pulls Crowley in for a blazing kiss. His spent cock is already twitching back to life (not too shabby for a 6,000 year old Demon if he does say so himself) and he grinds it into Aziraphale's leg. 

"My dear, I've already told you. I love you. I want you and all they entails." It's so simple and earnest thsr Crowley has to lay his head on Aziraphale's chest. They miracle the mess away and Crowley thinks idly that Heaven and Hell would be mortified if they knew how the ethereal and infernal power was being used. He snickers and smiles. Good. 

They rearrange themselves under the blankets and create a cocoon of feathers and silk, just for the two of them. They kiss and touch and, before long, they get to try things the other way 'round. 

Aziraphale looks powerful, every inch the Warrior of the Lord when he's pounding into Crowley, wings spread and head thrown back. Crowley doesn't think he'll ever see a more beautiful sight. 

They eventually collapse in a tangle of limbs and wings and bed sheets, sated and comfortable and exhausted. 

As they drift off Crowley thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is a love he'll get to keep. 

Eons ahead and behind, the Almighty Herself gives an indulgent smile. Ineffable indeed. 


End file.
